Subtle Solace
by ChibiAnimeFreak
Summary: Because sometimes all it takes is a little reassurance to make everything right: Spain is unsure of Romano's feelings for him, and needs a little help from his favorite Italian to comfort him. Can Romano properly convey how he's feeling or will he ruin it all for the sake of his pride? Spamano


_**Because sometimes all it takes is a little reassurance to turn a bad situation right. **_

_Okay, so this may seem a bit fractured (though I don't think it starts to feel that way until later than where the break is) because I started this about a month or so ago and finished it last night. I reread it again today, but I still think it's a bit odd. It's almost as though the part from Spains POV and Romano's POV belong in two different stories. The writing style's almost kind of different too … weird … Whatever. Either way, I'm not the biggest fan of this, but I needed to write something because I haven't in a while and I've finally gotten myself interested in Hetalia again so yeah. Here ya go! (And just so anyone here who's reading my other story _Rallentando Deep Within_ knows, chapter eighteen is partially written, I just don't know when the rest is coming. I don't know how I want to end it yet, but it shouldn't take much longer to figure it out. I hope. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor do I gain any prophet from my writing this, other than perhaps a bit of a much unneeded ego stroke. ;)_

o.O.0.O.o

Spain was an oblivious idiot.

He was one of the worst nations in the world at reading the atmosphere—and that was saying something, seeing as both Veneziano and America happened to fit into that category as well. And he wasn't even the normal kind of oblivious, where maybe a few things missed his attention. No, he was the kind of person where, even when the explanation was literally spelled out in front of him, he had trouble picking up the meaning.

A lot of times that wouldn't be too bad of a thing. While it may have caused some awkward situations for both Spain and all those involved—not that Spain could tell—no great calamity could be traced back to Spain and his obliviousness.

But there was one thing that really hadn't worked out too well. Romano didn't know if it was just bad planning on God's part, or if He just wanted Romano to always have a hard time, but somehow the most clueless nation in the world had ended up dating the most subtle nation in the world.

Now, in a lot of ways Romano certainly _wasn't_ subtle. If he was annoyed or angry or irritable he didn't bother to hide it. A lot of people would even claim Romano was perpetually that way, that he never revealed anything _but_ that side of himself. However, as only a choice few were lucky enough to know, therein lied the clue: he never _revealed_ anything else; he was prone to show his other emotions only behind a mask of anger.

It was in that way Romano was subtle.

And it was in that way Romano seemed to find the most trouble when it came to his oblivious boyfriend.

Spain and Romano were eating dinner, seated at opposite ends of the table and picking at their own bowls of pasta contentedly. Or, well, as contented as Romano could be, especially with a certain Spanish boyfriend of his staring at him with uncharacteristic concentration, brows knit together and a little frown pulling at his lips. A _frown_. Spain was frowning. That enough was to get Romano a bit confused and even worried, but it was the embarrassment that seemed the most adamant on showing itself as he squirmed under Spain's gaze.

Romano wasn't one to attract attention to himself. Spain was all he could take usually—the bastard never _stopped_ laving attention on his favorite Italian—so this extra little dose of weird wasn't helping his comfortable-level any.

He tried to ignore the emerald eyes boring into his hunched form, and attempted to, instead, enjoy the amazing taste of the delicious pasta in front of him. But after a few more moments of Spain's insistent staring, he gave up.

"What is it, you fucking bastard?" Romano snapped, glaring up at Spain with the look that made most nations flinch.

But not Spain, no, of course not.

The Spaniard smiled nervously at his lover. Okay, now Romano was worried. "Spain" and "nervous" didn't usually go in the same sentence, unless, of course, there happened to be "is making" and "Romano" in the middle.

"You know I love you very much, _verdad_?" Spain questioned with that same uneasy smile playing at his lips.

Romano felt his cheeks heat up then, Spain's nervousness forgotten for a moment. Spain's admittances of his love for Romano never ceased to amaze the Italian. A warmth bubbled up in his stomach, and he found himself staring at the Spaniard, wishing nothing more than for the bastard to somehow defy the laws of being on the opposite sides of tables and kiss him right there.

But then he remembered he'd been asked a question.

"Y-yeah," Romano managed, eyes breaking from Spain's lips and instead finding his insecure eyes.

Well, that was strange. Now there were _two_ insecure, nerve-wracked nations within the household that night rather than the usual one. Not that Romano was perpetually nervous around Spain or anything! As if that idiot could do that to him…

"I was just thinking…" Spain hesitated. "I mean, you've never said it or anything, and it's kind of hard to tell with you, so … do you—do you love me?" Emerald eyes peered up at Romano under chocolate bangs. Spain needed a haircut, really. When had his bangs gotten that long?

But that didn't matter right then, because Spain had just asked Romano the one thing he had been procrastinating saying for a long time. Romano knew his answer; his mind was screaming it out to him over and over:

_Of course I love you, you big idiot; I've always loved you. How could I not love you when you do all that you do for me? When you kept me when everyone else left me? When you gave me love and hope and helped me through tough times? I love you more than anything, more than I could ever love anyone else. _

But the words wouldn't form in Romano's mouth. He couldn't say them, he couldn't. It wasn't that he was scared, or that he was afraid the feelings weren't reciprocated—at least not mostly. But even then the old fears came back. What if Spain really had just settled for Romano? What if he really did just want Veneziano and was only putting up with Romano because the potato bastard would kill him otherwise?

Part of Romano told him that Spain really did look worried, and wasn't that proof that he was hoping for the affirmative answer? But then what if he was worried Romano actually did love him, and that it would be that much harder to break the news to him if that were the case?

"W-well, I…" Romano finally calmed down enough to say, and for a moment he thought he might actually work up the nerve to do the impossible. But then he sighed, fixing his gaze somewhere in his lap. "No."

Oh, he hadn't wanted to say that, really, but Romano had a tendency to say the exact opposite of what he truly meant, and habits were hard to break. Romano had never been good with words, least of all when they counted.

Spain's entire being seemed to deflate, and he dropped his newly deadened eyes to his plate. "Oh." He resumed eating half-heartedly.

But Spain ought to know that. How could he have been around Romano all those centuries and not realized that fact, such a simple one?

Guilt gnawed at Romano's stomach as he tried to follow Spain's example and continue with his meal. The pasta didn't taste half as good as a minute ago.

Minutes passed, and Romano's appetite got smaller and smaller the more he thought of the complete devastation that had been apparent on Spain's face when he'd delivered the horrible lie. He hated words with a passion. Why did the main form of communication have to be through talking? Why was language what they seemed to always fall back on?

Not that, Romano realized, he could really use any other form of communication around Spain, for certainly the bastard wouldn't even notice it if the answer were plastered on a gigantic neon sign and shoved in his face. No, with Spain it was very much a matter of spelling things out clearly, of dictating and using simpler words, or else he would get lost.

For Romano that had become more than just a problem over the many years of his knowing Spain, and even more so since they had begun officially dating, if that's what you could even call it.

But goddamn it, Spain _really_ should have known by then to not take Romano's outbursts seriously.

Emotions bubbled in Romano's stomach, threatening to spill over in the form of tears. Frustrated tears, not sad ones, because Romano wasn't someone to cry over something as stupid as not being understood by his love. He was heavily debating just feigning sickness and going to bed, but just then Antonio placed his silverware down on his plate and stood up, his chair screeching against the tiles.

"I think I'm done for the night," the Spanish nation spoke, his voice crackly. He flashed Romano a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes, and he swore the usually bright emerald orbs were a bit wetter than was usual.

"Wait! I do love you! I'm just too scared to say it!" Romano screamed in his mind. Out in the real world, though, he remained silent as Spain trudged towards the kitchen.

Romano tried not to notice how his back was shaking slightly.

He let his fork fall onto his plate, any thought of eating that night driven from his mind. Well Goddamn if he wasn't the worst boyfriend in the world right then.

o.O.0.O.o

Hours passed without sign or sound of Spain. Romano had long since cleared his plate and sat himself on the couch—which certainly didn't feel too big and lonely without that bastard not completely disregarding the impressive mass of the couch and snuggling himself as close to Romano as was possible according to the laws of physics and the universe in general.

He waited apprehensively for Spain to return, to come skipping down the stairs and present himself to Romano with a cheery "all better~!" and a loving kiss to the Italian's rouge cheek, but in vain.

Now, Romano wasn't usually one to underestimate the Spaniard's ability to sulk for undetermined amounts of time—usually absurdly lengthy ones—but he couldn't get the idiot's face out of his head. The way it had seemed to suddenly lose all traces of former happiness and cheer haunted him; the utter despair evident on the normally blissfully idiotic face sent his stomach churning and nerves fraying in the most unpleasant way. Countless times the Italian nation attempted to find something interesting on the television, something that would easily distract his overly occupied mind, without luck. Every time he found something suitable, his mind would drift, even the most attentive thriller he could find unable to successfully keep his mind effectively washed clean of all thoughts of the tomato bastard.

Tomato bastard? What tomato bastard? There certainly wasn't one of those moping around the house. Nope.

_Oh, damn it all to hell_, Romano thought with an inwards eye roll, sighing heavily. He finally flicked the TV off, and heaved himself off the way too comfortable couch, drooping eyes finally driving him off to bed. He drifted absent-mindedly up the stairs, brain at last seeming to have left the topic of Sp—_that _person in the dust.

Without even thinking he turned down the hall and found himself staring directly at the door to their—_Spain's_ room. Romano found himself sorely tempted to reach for the knob, slide the ancient door open, and to slip into the warm room in a way that was supposed to leave him unnoticed by the man obviously sleeping like the dead, but that really only garnered the attention of said "sleeping" man, and made him whine about how the bed was too cold without his _Romanito _there with him.

That wouldn't be happening that night, however, for Romano had already served to ruin the night quite thoroughly and in a way that would probably necessitate his absence from that certain room for the foreseeable future.

Pushing down the longing within him, the part of him that wished for the warmth and comfort of the familiar body encroaching in on his personal space in a way that really didn't feel like encroaching at all, Romano turned his back on the door and walked instead down the hall and to the room that might just have been more familiar than the one he had just left behind: his childhood room.

It wasn't long before Romano reached the door to his room. "Just close enough that I can hear you, but far enough that you have your privacy" Spain always used to say. Only now it felt too far away, like worlds away, from Spain. Back then he wouldn't have minded it being a little more distant from his seemingly overbearing boss, but now he wished for nothing more than to be almost _too close_ to the idiot.

With a defeated sigh and yet another mental barraging, Romano pried open the door and revealed the moonlit room. It seemed smaller than it had back then and smelled of must, though he only supposed that made sense. Despite the warm summer air filtering through the rest of the house, it was chilly almost to the point of discomfort within the abandoned-looking room, and Romano cracked open the bay window to hopefully warm it up. Truly it looked as though no one had touched in it centuries, though certainly that couldn't have been the case. Spain must have had someone clean it out, for many of the old familiarities were missing. The full-length standing mirror was gone, instead replaced with an armoire with a layer less of dust than everything else, and rather than the plush canopy-style double bed he remembered, there was a single bed with the sheets pulled tight and looking as though it belonged in a military barracks and not in Spain's usually laid back home. They were just little minute changes, and yet contained such an impact that Romano nearly debated finding a different guest room to stay in—it wasn't like they weren't in abundance—before deciding the lure of sleep was too strong.

Without even taking the chance to regret his lack of sleep-clothes—it wasn't as though he were planning to sleep outside of Spain's room that night—Romano stripped himself down to his boxers and squirmed into the squished bed. The sheets scratched at his bare legs and stomach as he shifted to get comfortable, and he laid his head on the too-hard pillows with the feeling of wanting to sleep, but without the ability to do so.

He crushed his eyes together, squinting them as if someone that would convince them to want to stay closed for the next eight hours at least, and willed himself to sleep, if only as a way to escape the regret that was nagging at him. Romano's chest was tight as if there were a rope connected to his heart and pulling it towards where he knew Spain was sleeping peacefully, content that Romano didn't love him.

Or was he? Could Romano truly have imagined that look of utter dejection and despondency on his face? That kind of anguish was hard to fake. And why would he fake anguish anyways if he did wish Romano away? To spare his feelings? Not likely. If he didn't care, then why would he bother to go through the trouble of that? It just wasn't computing for Romano; he couldn't imagine how Spain could possibly love him, but he couldn't see a way around how he did.

Something was off, and Romano couldn't help but think it was him who had caused it. For once was it possible Romano was the one being oblivious? Was it he who had missed what was obviously there? Had he missed Spain's love for him?

Or had he just chosen to ignore it?

o.O.0.O.o

It was too cold.

That was the first thing Spain decided was wrong as his eyes pried themselves open, the leftover sleep crackling in protest as they finally succeeded. He rubbed at a swollen and puffy eye curiously, glancing around for Romano, but was abortive in locating his love.

Then he remembered.

Spain felt his heart shatter anew, the already broken shards recalling their current state and falling into it once again. Romano … Romano didn't love him. He'd said it himself, plain and clear. The worst: he'd been so convinced of it previously, so entirely sure his _tomatito_ held feelings for him when truly he had been leading him on for the time they had been together. Or maybe he'd done it out of kindness, really, giving Spain the benefit of the doubt and thinking maybe he'd fall for him eventually if he took a crack at it. Only it hadn't panned out that way, had it?

Antonio collapsed back down onto the sheets, curling into the duvet despite the warmth of the night. Maybe if he thought hard enough he could imagine it was Romano snuggling him.

When minutes passed and his mind was neither convinced nor safely in the realm of sleep, he groaned, rolling over and peering at the glaring numbers of his clock. Three twenty seven. Far too early to justify getting up by any standards, even if he used the excuse of wanting to care for the tomato fields.

Yes, caring for the fields like he and Romano usually did—and had been doing since he was but a small child still under Spain's care. How odd it was to think that only just under two hundred years ago Romano had still been living with him as an underling. Of course, those last years had been difficult for all involved, even that much Spain could tell. He was far too weak to really do anything for the boy, and said boy wasn't really much of a boy anymore, but rather an almost full-grown nation. He couldn't have aged more than a five human years since leaving Spain.

Although, Spain supposed, he had to give Romano credit for not leaving earlier. When he finally became his own territory he couldn't have been any older than about fifteen human years, and even then he had long since grown to resent the restrictions captivity had given him. Not to say Romano hadn't many times over threatened leaving, or at the very least complained about how horrible it was being under Spain's rule, but he had never rebelled—at least not too seriously—and had never even run away for a period of over three days.

Why had he stuck around so long?

By the time Romano left Spain had been under the succession for quite a bit, even falling to France for a while under Napoleon's rule. Why hadn't Romano run for the hills at that point? Certainly he had more than enough might to at least get away without too much of a hassle, so why had he stayed?

Spain had always thought it was because Romano loved him—at first in a familial way, and later as anything but. Of course, now he knew for certain that wasn't the case.

So why was it—

_Pitter patter. Pitter patter_.

Rain?

The sound continued, getting louder by the second. If it was rain, then it was very odd rain. Then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

Curled up and in a pretense of sleep, Spain froze, squeezing his eyes so that only a slight bit of the room was visible. A moment later it lit up, then just as quickly went back to its previous darkness. The door opening.

The same noise repeated, this time obviously footsteps, and obviously coming from within the room. And getting closer.

Trying to keep his breathing even and silent, Spain braced himself for the intruder—for what else could it be at this point—to strike.

To his surprise, however, rather than bash his head in, the intruder climbed into bed beside Spain, making the mattress dip with his added weight. He felt his heartbeat speed up in his chest as the intruder leaned towards him, so close Spain could feel his warm breath at the back of his neck.

Now the intruder would reach forward and strangle him, he was sure. Only, instead of feeling the deathly embrace of heavy hands, the only pressure pushing at this throat was that of soft lips, their contact leaving a tingling sensation where they had been, but doing nothing to settle Spain's pounding heart.

Was it France again? It wouldn't have been the first time the French nation had decided to sneak into Spain's house and join him in bed. Though usually, Spain reasoned, he wasn't so subtle with his advances.

Probably not him, then. But who? The only other conclusion his slightly-slower-than-average-mind could come to was Romano. But his _querido_ didn't love him; why would he kiss him?

Spain's mind spun, but he decided, for the time being, to remain silent with the hopes that his perpetrator would either reveal himself or leave peacefully.

He did neither.

Spain felt a hand running through his hair, pulling at the curls softly and untangling them where sleep had caused them to snarl, before trailing down his jaw and neck with feather light touches. His lips followed where the hand had been previously, and Spain found his body temperature beginning to climb.

He strongly considered revealing himself as being awake, but if it was Romano he didn't want to spook him. He really hoped it was Romano.

The intruder gently pulled at Spain's back, and, without much effort from the mysterious man in his room, he obeyed, hoping he could get a better view of whoever it was from the new angle. He squinted through the tiniest opening between his lids, but was only able to catch the outline of a shadow as the intruder suspended his upper body over Spain's.

One of the intruder's hands rested on Spain's chest. It was such a light, delicate hand. How odd.

The intruder let out a sigh. "Idiot," he breathed, sweet breath caressing Spain's face. "Of course I love you."

Spain's eyes snapped open, but before he could properly register the words that had just been whispered to him in the dark he felt soft lips pressing against his own. He blinked once, twice, before finally deciding that, yes, this had to be Romano, and that, yes, it was okay to kiss him back now.

Not one to go against pleasant thoughts, Spain let his eyes drift shut again and responded to his nighttime bandit. He barely registered the small gasp of disbelief Romano let out before gripping the back of the Italian's head and twining his fingers in the soft hair at the base of his neck.

He felt Romano shift so he was straddling him and laying down against his chest, all without breaking their kiss. Not that Spain would have let him had he tried.

After a few moments of blissful silence, Romano pulled back, staring at Spain. Or so he figured; it was hard to tell in the dark.

"_Te amo, también, querido_," Spain purred into Romano's ear.

"B-bastard," Romano growl-whimpered. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"I could never sleep through that," Spain assured. He pulled Romano back down, but rather than kiss him again, he simply rested the Italian against his chest. The hand that had previously been resting tangled within the locks of Romano's hair drifted down to rest on his back instead, rubbing circles into the soft skin. "Besides," he added, not pausing in his ministrations, "I couldn't sleep _sin mi amor_."

Spain swore he could feel the heat of Romano's blush against his chest. He placed a delicate kiss on the crown on the Italian's head. "_Buenas noches, querido_."

"_B-buona notte … il mio amore_."

o.O.0.O.o

_Hope you enjoyed it~! _

_Chibianimefreak out~_


End file.
